The Prize in the Game (41 page)

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The thought was almost too much for her. She held back the tears. She had driven the chariot for nine days

at the Battle of the Ford. Nobody here knew that, unless Amagien had discovered it, but she let the knowledge of it strengthen her as she danced the marriage measure with Lew, treading down the branches and at last taking both his hands and making her vows in a clear voice before the gods and the assembled people. She had said she would do this. At least she would get away from Maga.

Lew held Emer's arm as if he thought she might still escape. She looked at him. He was still smiling. He did not know how reluctant she had been to marry him, and he would never know.

He was a good man, if a weak king, and Conal's uncle. She would be the best wife she could be to him.

The hall had been swept and the dogs chased away. The place was lit with many candles and full of the scent of roast boar. Amagien was playing the harp. Everyone was making wedding-night jokes, which Lew returned. He kept hold of Emer's arm as he drew her through the crowds. There were a few familiar faces from her last visit, and a few of Maga's entourage, including ap Dair, but most of those in the crowds were strangers to Emer.

Lew led her out in the first dance, whirling her among the confusion. It was a northern dance, danced in couples, not a southern dance with chains the way they danced in Connat. Emer hoped she wasn't too clumsy at it. The exercise made her feel better in a way, but also almost tired. Lying on the bed and weeping for nine months had got her out of condition. She would be able to practice the chariot again here. The stables were good, she remembered, as Lew turned her in his arms. She would make friends with the stable-master as soon as she had the chance.

After the dance Lew again kept her arm. He seemed to know where he was going, and she had no plans so she let him draw her after him. After a while they paused between two alcoves. Maga and Allel were sitting together to their right. Maga was dressed magnificently in primrose yellow, and wearing all her gold. She smiled at Lew as if he were a new possession. He would not be, Emer swore silently; she would not guide him towards her mother's policy but rather away from it. Emer bowed as coldly and as formally to her parents as she possibly could.

In the alcove opposite sat Atha and Darag, equally resplendent, both of them wearing red and silver. Atha had one breast bared to nurse a new baby. Emer had never thought she could be so pleased to see Darag.

"I didn't know they were here," she said in surprise.

"They wanted to come," Lew replied. "I didn't see any harm in it when Atha suggested it; they are one of my oldest alliances. Though ap Ranien, who is one of my councillors and whom you must meet soon, said it might annoy Maga."

"It might," Emer said. "But annoying Maga is not the worst thing. And it was very good of them to come when

Atha must have given birth so recently."

"A nursing mother is lucky at a wedding, yes, but at this time of year they are quite plentiful," Lew said, laughing.

"I was thinking of their making the journey with the baby," Emer said. "But shall we go and greet them?"

She did not wait for Lew to agree but guided him towards Darag's alcove. "My blessings on your bed," Atha said as they approached. "Four children and a fortunate beginning."

Lew laughed and bowed, though all of them knew he had had a daughter already, who was dead.

Atha began to joke with him, drawing him a little aside.

Darag put out a hand to Emer. "How are you?" he asked.

She had seen him when they had been patching up a truce after the battle. He was the
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only person she would trust to tell her that nobody was hiding Conal from her. She had fallen on the hillside in Cruachan, near the cave; why hadn't he? She had been very close to madness then and Darag had looked ravaged. He looked healthier now, but years older than the boy she had known.

"I am better than I was," she said starkly. "You, too?"

Darag bit his lip. "May I claim a lucky dance with the bride?" he asked Lew.

Lew was beaming at something Atha had said. It was going to be hard to live with a man whose smiles made her want to cry. "Yes, go, dance with the King of Oriel," he said, patting Emer gently on the hand. She managed to smile at him as she went. His eyes met hers as he was cooing over the baby.

Darag led her into the dance. He seemed to know the steps. "We would have given you our protection," he said quietly. "Not only for Conal's sake but for your own. We know how much we owe to you."

"My mother kept me far too closely guarded for me to consider escaping to Oriel," Emer said.

"We would still give you our protection," Darag said, his voice barely audible even to her.

Emer sighed. "I am no oath-breaker," she said. "Lew is not whom I would have freely chosen, as you know, but he is not a bad man, and there is work to do here. I have given my oath. I am married. It is too late.

Besides, it would mean war with Connat, and you have probably had enough of that already."

"Oriel and I owe you a debt we can never repay," Darag said, looking more distressed than ever.

"War with

Connat and Anlar both would not be too high a price."

Emer shook her head. She and Darag knew what war meant. "We can be friends," Emer said.

"That's all I

think we can do for each other now."

"If Conal had livedmdash"

"Everything would have been different," Emer interrupted harshly.

"I had only just learned to like him," Darag said. "That makes my loss of him very great."

Emer could hardly keep control of herself when she heard this and thought of how Conal and Darag had hated each other. But Darag seemed sincere. "I wasmdashhe wasmdash" She broke off. "It is the worst thing that could happen," she said.

"Not the worst thing," Darag said, very low. "You didn't kill him yourself."

"Oh, Darag," she said, full of sympathy she did not know how to express.

The dance was ending. Darag squeezed her hand and let it go, and then they bowed to each other. People she barely knew were pressing up to take their lucky dances with the bride. Then the outer door opened with a thump, and a blast of icy air came into the hall, blowing out a few of the candles and making people laugh and shiver. Emer turned to the door. This was her hall now, and disturbances were her responsibility, even if she had not yet taken up the keys.

Inis stood in the doorway, tall but stooping over the burden he carried, his multicolored priest's shawl blowing loose over his shoulders. The burden looked like a body, wrapped in dark cloth.

It was dripping water.

Amagien had stopped playing in the middle of a phrase, and the voices that had not hushed already seemed loud and false in the spreading silence. Emer found herself taking a few steps towards the door, without having intended to.

"Ap Fathag?" she asked tentatively, trying not to make it sound like a question.

There was a moment then when she both knew and didn't know, as the wrapping fell away from his face.

Then for an instant she thought it was Conal's body he carried, drowned somehow, for his eyes were closed and water ran from his hair. She thought she heard someone screaming very high
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and far away. Then Inis lowered the body and she kept moving forward, so that she was kneeling before Conal when he opened his eyes and looked up into her face and said her name.

32

(FERDIA)

Beneath the world, Ferdia does not yet know he is dead. He has come through the rain of stars, through the fire, through the narrow gates, past their guardians, who ignored him. Now he walks downward, which seems to be the thing to do. His wounds are visible but no longer bleeding.

He has no idea how he came to be here.

The walls are packed earth, making a narrow corridor. He passes a three-headed dog, which reminds him of something he has already forgotten. It raises its heads to watch him walk by, then settles them down again on its paws.

He hears the lamenting around several corners, breaking the stillness. When he comes up to them at the dark landing place, he knows he is down among the dead, and wonders how he came here.

The dead do not talk as they wait, though many remember how to weep. There is no recognition in their eyes.

They stand in the darkness, all together, but each alone.

When the boat comes slipping silently down to the landing, Ferdia, always polite, is pushed to the back as the dead push forward in desperate, urgent spasm, as if time could have meaning here.

The hooded boatman reaches with his pole, pushing the dead aside, choosing the ones he will carry. This trip is for those who were killed by Darag. There are enough of them to fill the boat.

Up in the sunlight, Darag knows it and weeps. The tears reach Ferdia as a thin thread of regret. He remembers his name and his death. The boat slips downstream, crowded with lamenting souls of those who fought and lost forever.

Ferdia stares into the darkness, remembering spears, one thrown over glittering water, one thrown in a sunlit field. His best friend, his dear enemy, his broken heart. It is his lost future he mourns most. His life, his hopes, his father's kingdom, thrown away with nothing in exchange.

The boat comes at last to shore. Ferdia stands alone before the dark throne in the pillared hall, a shadow among shadows. The Lord of the Dead and his Bride look at him sadly, and judge as they must.

When he has given back his name, the sinews of his life and station, all he has been and done, his thin moth soul goes on to rebirth, wailing in the wind.

There is not, in this case, very much left at all.

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